


More Than a Theory

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Humor, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:36:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collins is bored. He follows the steps of the scientific method to find the answer to the age-old question: Why is Mark single? Hilarity ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Recognize the Problem

Tom Collins, on-and-off college professor and full-time vagabond anarchist, was bored.

It may have seemed ridiculous to the other bohemians that this sort of crisis could ever possibly occur: Collins had always been the life of the party, showing up every Christmas or whenever he was out of a job with a case of Stoli and fresh tales of anarchy and narrow escapes that he had collected on his journeys throughout the year. He swore and joked around and made everybody laugh- as long as they were on his good side. Everything about Collins recalled warmth, love and laughter., and wild times.

But now Angel was gone, leaving him with only the fond memories recorded in his mind and Mark's camera, and his faithful leather jacket that the cross dresser had bought for him that Christmas Eve nearly two years ago. Teaching jobs came and went. Universities all over the east coast hired and fired him for his passion, and in between he tutored students that he privately knew were never going to finish their freshman year of college, no matter what they said. Maureen and Joanne called once in awhile, if they knew where he was. Mark and Roger, he knew, would be in the same place he left them when he came to visit.

Life passed by in a blur, the same things over and over; and Collins was simply tired of it all.

He needed some excitement in his life. A problem to solve. Something to keep him occupied, keep him from wanting to drown himself to escape the boredom. It had been ages since he'd been presented a real problem to solve.

Sighing, Collins sat up straighter on the beat-up couch to peer into the semi-darkness of the loft. It wasn't all that comfortable anyways- it was more duct tape than upholstery after the abuse they'd put the poor piece of furniture through. Weak rays of dirty winter sunlight partially illuminated the room from the cracked windowpanes, splashing on the half inch-thick layer of grime that covered the floor. Collins was almost certain that no female presence had set foot in the loft in months, based on the amount of dirt that had accumulated. Not to be outdone, the walls had turned an off-white yellowish color, equally unwashed.

Roger had clearly made no attempt to help clean up, as his laundry lay in miscellaneous piles scattered across the floor; holey socks, careworn plaid boxers to match his pajama pants, tattered jeans and various dark-colored t-shits and sweaters mingled everywhere. It didn't look as though he was interested I taking them to the Laundromat anytime in the foreseeable future.

At least Mark usually had the decency to pick up after himself. Collins strongly suspected that, after living by himself with only his male roommate for years, Roger had completely lost that skill.

The loft, aside from it's filth, was arctic. The anarchist was vaguely aware that the thermometer that had once hung in the window had disappeared, most likely to avoid having to see exactly how depressingly cold it was even inside. Benny, it seemed, had never had the chance to turn their heat back on; Mark and Roger had to have been wearing at least three layers of clothing each when Collins had shown up at the door, a week early, with his usual Christmas cheer.

"Been fired again?" Mark had laughed, smiling widely when Collins took it upon himself to barge in without knocking and envelop his shorter friend in a tight hug. The bohos had finally deemed it necessary to bestow Collins a key of his own, if only to minimize his chances of being mugged on the street again while he stood waiting for it to be tossed down, a vulnerable target.

"Nah, man!" He grinned and flashed a stack of cash from his pocket. "Got a sweet new gig up in Maine. Off early for Christmas vacation, and a bonus to boot. Where's the lovebirds?"

"Ah, um…" Mark looked uncomfortable now, averting his eyes and running a hand nervously through his ginger-blond hair. "About that."

Roger chose that moment to appear at the door, wearing the most relaxed expression that Collins had ever seen on his face. His hair was a mess, and his clothes were rumpled with sleep.

"Collins, hey, you're early," he said, leaning around Mark to greet his friend. He was almost smiling, though it looked more like a smirk, and his green eyes were bleary but shining happily. "How was it in suburbia?"

"Fine, fine- no picking up ass on the street out there, though. Is Mimi around?" The last he'd seen them, back at New Years, the night before he'd left, the guitarist and the dancer had been attached at the hip. She had been recovering from her time on the streets, but was feeling better by the day.

"Downstairs," Roger shrugged, inexplicably blushing as he looked away. "Where else?"

"Downstairs," Collins repeated questioningly. "And you're up here." It wasn't a question, but an open-ended statement. He thought he was piecing things together the right way, but an uneasy knot had formed in his stomach, and he didn't want to make his assumptions. Rather, he wanted his assumptions to be wrong.

"A few months ago," he said, and there was a moment of tense silence as Mark fiddled with his camera anxiously and Roger gazed meaningfully into Collins' eyes. Willing him to understand the truth of the situation.

Collins was the one to break it. Her closed his eyes in silent pain for the songwriter. "I'm sorry, Rog." He felt for his friend. Mimi had pulled Roger out of the shell that April had pulled him into; she'd taught him to love again, and gotten him out of the loft after six months of angst, withdrawal and isolation. He was so sure that Roger had finally found The One. He wondered, vaguely, what had broken them up; he wasn't going to press for details, though. That wasn't his job. It was Mark's.

Judging by how happy Roger was despite the breakup, Mark had done a damn fine job. It struck Collins that Roger was almost ABSURDLY calm and collected- things he'd never been. But once again, he wasn't going to push his luck.

The conversation had quickly returned to Collin's exploits of the year and what the artists had been up to. Collins had been eagerly invited to stay the extra week as long as he contributed to the rent that they all knew they wouldn't be paying. Cheerful banter highlighted the morning, and eventually Mark had gone out to film for the afternoon and Roger had retreated to his room, from which soft notes of his acoustic drifted to Collins' ears where he sat on the couch with his ratty duffel bag on the floor next to his feet.

And Collins was bored.

Restlessly, he heaved himself up and paced to the window to glance outside. Dealers, junkies, homeless and passerby blended together into a mass of human flesh in the streets and alleyways below. Nothing interested him. How was a philosopher supposed to find an interesting problem here in the city slums? Absently, his eyes roamed the street some more, when he spotted a familiar head of reddish blonde hair.

Mark scurried across the street with his camera tucked out of sight under his arm. If some illin' junkie needed the cash, they'd strike gold upon finding such an expensive piece of equipment in the hands of someone so small and easily incapacitated. Collins watched him walk, alone, as usual.

Come to think of it, why WAS Mark alone? Even after all this time, he still hadn't been on a single date since Maureen. Even more strangely, the wry jokes he so often made about it seemed to have stopped altogether since the last time they'd talked…

Of course! There was his problem!

Quickly, Collins ran to the couch and unzipped the duffel bag. He dug around until he found what he'd been looking for- an old black notebook and a pen, which he used to record his thoughts on days when he considered streaking through the town square just to spice up his life. This definitely qualified as one of those days.

Hurriedly, so as to finish and hide the notebook before Mark made his way up the stairs, he jotted down a title at the top of a blank page near the back.

Problem: Why is Mark single?

He grinned, tucking it away so that neither of his roommates would go snooping around in it and ruin his fun, and sat back on the duct-taped couch as if nothing had happened.

Collins was going to solve the mystery that no one had solved before him.

He was going to find out why the filmmaker couldn't get a date.


	2. Research the Topic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns RENT and all of the wonderful characters contained within it, though why he never outed Mark and Roger is a mystery to me…

Now that he had his problem, Collins was ready for the second step. Because he was still bored- he hadn't actually DONE anything yet, after all- and now he was anticipating the next move with the same sort of excitement Mark felt when his footage made the news. While the other boho boys were tucked safely in bed, he stayed up planning with his trusty notebook in hand.

The morning came with Mark, clad in several warmish layers and his customary scarf, banging about at an ungodly hour in the kitchen. Collins blinked slowly, groaning at the stiffness in his back and shoulders from the awkward position he'd fallen asleep in. He glanced at the clock on the wall that was, amazingly, bright and shiny clean, unlike the rest of the loft. Seven in the morning. Mark must have it in for him. Roger, he knew, wouldn't be up until at least noon and probably later if he had his way.

But if he wanted to stalk- er, FOLLOW- Mark today, he needed to get up and prepare to head out as soon as the door clicked shut behind the blonde on his way out. Sighing, Collins thought about the things he did for the sake of his entertainment.

Two cups of coffee later, he followed the filmmakers footsteps out of the freezing loft into the equally freezing early morning air. His breath, frosty and white, contrasted sharply with his skin and the all-black outfit he'd chosen for today's mission.

It wasn't STALKING, he told himself sternly. It was RESEARCH. All in the sake of research. Plus, he'd get to find out what Mark did all day; because he couldn't possibly just be "filming", not for the long hours he was gone every single day. What was there left for him to film in this dingy corner of the city, anyways? He'd had years: years to film every passed-out junkie and shadowy alley. Every passerby with their unique style every starving artist on the street corner, every crack in the sidewalk, was documented somewhere on one of the reels of film that mark kept in a cardboard box in his closet right beside his projector.

So, Collins concluded, there had to be some other daily activity that the young artist participated in. Or he'd eat his skull cap.

The shorter man walked slowly, taking his time. He filmed the worn, cracked pavement and the graffiti scrawled on the building faces, and he filmed the snow falling gently from the pale grey clouds, all the while murmuring a quiet narration. He'd learned a long time ago that the homeless weren't exactly friendly when someone attempted to script their pathetic lives. Collins trailed a good twenty feet behind, hiding in crowds of passerby. Not that it was necessary; Mark was quite possibly the most oblivious filmmaker on the planet, because he never noticed the tall black man tailing him, not even when the crowds parted and they were suddenly within five feet of each other.

At least, he must have been, because at what Collins judged to be about two hours later the ginger-blonde put the camera under his arm and began bustling in another direction with a determined stride. Collins was sure that he was heading somewhere specific, somewhere planned, instead of just doing more of the aimless wandering he'd been enduring the past couple hours. He tried to appear inconspicuous as he ducked into an alleyway beside a very familiar building, watching the filmmaker enter none other than the Life Café.

He bit his lip. Should he risk following his friend into the restaurant? It was more likely that he'd be discovered inside, and his research would have to be put off for another day; and yet, if he didn't, he would miss out on whatever experience Mark might be having, and thus completely fucking his research. Sighing, Collins mentally cursed himself for putting himself into such a potentially awkward situation and entered the humble building with his customary long strides. He didn't want to look as though he was hiding, because by his logic that would look even more suspicious.

Collins logic was usually correct, however skewed it seemed. He kept his head up confidently as he walked inside and waved to Jimmy, the flamboyantly homosexual waiter. The young Asian man grinned back at him and wiggled his fingers in a more feminine wave before continuing on his path. He headed towards a booth in the corner where- Collins was surprised to find- Joanne sat, in casual clothes for what seemed the first time to Collins, greeting Mark who was smiling and unwinding his scarf from his neck as he sat across from her, talking animatedly and leaning forward in his eagerness. The lawyer laughed and replied to whatever he'd said.

The anarchist's eyes widened impossibly. Thoughts raced through his mind- was he seeing what he thought he was? But the rational side of his brain quickly took over, scolding him for having such thoughts I the first place. For God's sakes, they were good friends. Couldn't they have lunch together without Collins jumping to conclusions? Everyone knew that Joanne wasn't nearly as irresponsible as Maureen, nor as likely to give in to misguided passion.

Watching the half an hour exchange between his two friends wasn't interesting nor informative, and Collins was just about ready to head home and call it a day before he spotted Jimmy approaching their table for the check. Joanne gathered her things and walked towards the door, calling her goodbyes behind her as she left, and Collins observed Mark as he spoke with the waiter. Jimmy fluttered his eyelashes at the blonde in his usual flirty manner as he accepted the meager tip Mark offered, and-

Woah, woah. Back up. Did Mark just blush at Jimmy's advances? The Asian man winked at the scrawny filmmaker and walked away giggling before Collins could further process this information, and he quickly zipped out the door and down the sidewalk towards the loft before Mark noticed his presence. His mind was galloping through possibilities, but he needed to sit down and think them through thoroughly before making any hypotheses.

MRMRMRMR

"Hey, man, where ya been?" Roger asked sleepily as Collins slipped back into the loft as quietly as possible. He winced. Of all days for Roger to be aware of his surroundings... He'd just have to hope the guitarist wouldn't mention his absence to the third inhabitant of the loft.

"Out, man," he replied shortly, and attempted to redirect the conversation. "What have YOU been up to? Any new lyrics?" He smiled encouragingly, and Roger scowled and shook his head, looking down at his notebook in frustration and then tossing it across the room into a dingy corner.

"Fuck, no," he sighed. "Haven't written anything really good since-" He stopped himself, flushing slightly.

"Since Mimi?" Collins suggested gently. He expected a tightening in the guitarist's eyes and a barked curse in his direction, but Roger inexplicably blushed a deeper shade of crimson and mumbled something unintelligible.

"I, uh… yeah. Bye." Roger fled to his room with wide eyes and a blush to rival Mark's. Collin's eyes followed him in confusion until he slammed the door behind him and hastily began strumming a few tuneless notes on his guitar.

Mark chose that moment to barge into the loft, swearing to himself about the cold of the average New York December day. He shook the light dusting of snow out of his hair- Collins wondered how it had started to snow just moments after he had entered the loft, but decided to disregard it as his own good luck- and proceeded to peel off one or two of the outer layers he'd been wearing.

"Hey, what's up with Roger?" he asked curiously when he noticed Collins standing by the couch. The notes stopped drifting to their ears almost immediately, and before Collins could answer the ginger-blonde's question Roger came barreling out of his room.

"Mark! How are Joanne and Maureen?" he asked eagerly, but Collins sensed that the former rocker wasn't really interested in the lesbian couple. He had managed to wrap himself around Mark, and the blush staining his stubbly cheeks hadn't receded at all. Mark was now sporting one to match; he laughed at his roommate's excitement, hugging back briefly before pushing him off with a teasing complaint.

"Oh, you know you love me you fucker." Roger smirked evilly.

"Hey! I resent that-"

Collins observed the pair's friendly bickering critically. His hands itched for a pen.

Notes should really be taken on this.


	3. Form a Hypothesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own emotion- er, RENT. And I certainly don't own the MarkRoger fandom! Unless you want to give it to me?

Collins chewed on the already mangled end of his pen and drummed his fingers on the tattered notebook lying in front of him. His analytical mind was whirring as he processed the observations he'd made the past few days. The notes he's taken were neat and organized, but his eyes weren't seeing the page before him; they were seeing Mark.

He recalled his first day of "research- the waiter, Jimmy, flirting with his shy friend. There was Mark, flushed and laughing, looking almost pleased with the attention the gay man was giving him. He'd turned him down, obviously, and he hadn't flirted back, but his body language told the anarchist that he hadn't minded one bit.

Of course, he'd continued his imperative research, and each new tidbit was more interesting than the last. An idea grew in his mind.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMR

Flashback

Collins hurried along Avenue B, cursing himself. He couldn't believe he'd lost the filmmaker. The sky was gray and heavy with clouds, threatening snow, and the tall black man couldn't help but feel nervous about being caught in the chill. He couldn't afford to catch so much as a cold with his condition, and he wasn't foolish enough to think that following Mark around was more important than his health.

Nearly ready to give up on the project for the day, Collins stopped suddenly upon glimpsing a familiar blue-and-white striped scarf not far ahead. There was a pale, scantily clad man standing on the corner, bearing glitter around his eyes and an enticing smile on his face. He leant towards the Jewish man suggestively, resting one delicate hand on Mark's chest and using the other to brush dark locks of hair out of his own eyes.

Collins brow furrowed. He readied himself to dart across the asphalt and push the man off of Mark if he began looking uncomfortable or afraid, but the filmmaker surprised him. He smiled apologetically, pulling out his pockets as if to prove he didn't have any money, and resumed his walk. The prostitute stood disappointed on the corner for a moment before calling after him.

"Honey, I don't need any money. I'll have you either way," he said loudly, rolling his hips forward and fluttering his unnaturally long eyelashes. Mark turned and replied before continuing on his way.

It sounded as though he'd said, "You're not my type, sorry." But Collins could have heard wrong.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMR

Fast forward to the loft the next day, where Collins was trying to become the human equivalent of wallpaper.

Scratch that. In the loft, wallpaper would be so conspicuous that it wasn't funny. Collins resolved to be less noticeable than wallpaper. He didn't want his research to be biased by his presence. After all, mark was liable to act differently around different people.

On this particular day, Mark had stayed in due to the snowstorm that Collins had predicted. The wind was howling, but for once the loft provided some use; the walls protected the boho boys from at least some of the icy conditions outside. The anarchist laid on the couch with his own blanket wrapped around him, pretending to sleep while Mark sat reading in the kitchen. Roger was quietly strumming his acoustic in his bedroom, the notes so soft they could barely be heard.

The music was brought to a sudden halt, and the click of Roger's door swinging open warned Collins to close his eyes and still his tapping feet. The musician's footsteps were slow and deliberately quiet as he crept past the couch to the kitchen.

"Collins is asleep," Roger's voice drifted to his ears. He could almost hear the mischievous grin, and began to wonder what the rocker was up to. Mark snorted, and then everything was quiet.

There were a few long moments of rustling, and Collins squirmed in impatience. What was going on? Mark sighed, a relaxed sort of exhalation. Roger's voice broke the near silence in a half-whisper.

"Hey, I wrote you something I want you to hear." He sounded excited, and Collins' curiosity was reignited. Hadn't Roger told him he hadn't written anything good recently? He tried to relax and settle down to listen as the roommates went back to Roger's room. He strained his ears and managed to pick up at least parts of their conversation.

"I thought you hadn't had any good ideas since Mimi?" Mark was saying, but he sounded tentatively happy. Roger laughed nervously.

"That's what Collins thinks, too. I just… wanted it to be a surprise." Their footsteps halted, but they left the door open, and Collins could still faintly hear mark's soft laughter and Roger's rougher tones as he plucked a few random strings on his guitar in warmup. He cleared his throat and began.

"It's so cold, let's take flight,

We won't need a net, hold on tight."

Roger's voice was like liquid fire, burning with passion. At least, that's how Collins described it in his mind; he had always been somewhat of a poetic when it came to touching moments like this. He felt oddly privileged to be hearing one of the guitarist's newest lyrics, as he didn't usually allow anyone but Mark to hear them unless they were already just as he wanted them. Roger was a perfectionist when it came to his music.

"A new ride is unveiled, and we don't need to try,

So there's no way to fail."

The song really complimented the writer's voice, Collins mused. Perhaps it was because he'd written it specifically for himself to sing, unlike the songs he sung for the Will Hungarians that were written for groupies and possible record deals. This one seemed more personal.

"A desperate look in our eyes, holding onto one another

Holding on for all our lives, just letting go to discover.

It's okay to realize,

Being born into nothing and no one and nowhere it's all a surprise."

Collins struggled to interpret Roger's song as he listened to the rich tones. It sounded like a love song; desperation, dependence on another person and facing the world together. But who the hell had he written it for, if it was? Mimi was downstairs, but maybe… Was he still in love with her? If he was, though, he wouldn't be singing this for Mark first…

"The desperate look in our eyes, holding onto one another,

Holding on for all our lives, just letting go to discover.

That love don't need a reason,

And love don't need a rhyme.

Love don't need a reason

And love don't need a rhyme.

I'm standing here pleading

And you just cover your eyes."

No, it couldn't be Mimi… Roger had looked so happy. He hadn't seemed to regret the breakup at all when they'd told Collins about it; he'd seemed almost relieved. If anything, it was Mimi who still loved Roger. Collins had caught her staring longingly up the fire escape more than once since he'd arrived. But if not Mimi, who had Roger fallen for?

"A desperate look in our eyes, holding onto one another,

Holding on for all our lives, just letting go to discover.

That love don't need a reason,

And love don't need a rhyme.

Love don't need a reason,

And love don't need a rhyme.

I'm standing here pleading,

While you just cover your eyes."

He could feel the song drawing to a close, and Roger's soulful voice was soaring on the final notes. The music became soft and slow as it neared the end. Collins felt as though he were listening to a lullaby; he was legitimately drowsy now. Dammit.

"It's so cold, let's take flight,

It's so cold, hold on tight…"

As the final words and notes of the acoustic drifted away, Collins heard Mark's whisper, thick with emotion, before unintentionally succumbing to his heavy eyelids.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMR

There were, of course, other bits and pieces of evidence he'd collected to support his theory. But those two stood out in bolded font in his mind. The anarchist was hesitant even to think what he was thinking; if he was wrong, Mark would be furious with him for even considering what he was about to do.

However, he'd spent the last hour deliberating, and he could only make two solid conclusions based on the data. Making his decision, he carefully scrawled them on a fresh page.

Hypothesis #1: Mark Cohen plays for the other team

Hypothesis #2: Mark Cohen has a crush or perhaps has fallen in love with, Roger Davis.

Satisfied, Collins began to plot his next move.

It was time to experiment…


	4. Perform an Experiment (Pt 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Still don't own RENT. Or MarkRoger. Probably never will. Whoever first created this pairing is my God.

The day before Christmas Eve, Collins rapped his knuckles sharply on the elegant mahogany door of Joanne Johnson's apartment and sat back on his heels to wait. To say that the building Maureen and Joanne inhabited was magnificent compared to the loft on Avenue B would be the understatement of the century. The hallways were brightly lit, with paisley green wallpaper decorating the walls and thick blue carpeting underfoot. The anarchist had half a mind to take off his shoes and sink his toes into the luxurious material, but managed to restrain himself.

It also had heat, which, as far as Collins was concerned, sealed the deal.

A moment later, the black lawyer appeared in the doorway dressed in a crisp black tuxedo. Her hair was falling messily out of its bun, and only one of her short heels was on, suggesting that she might have been getting ready for work when Collins had arrived. "Oh, Tom!" she greeted warmly, beckoning him inside without a second thought. "I don't have long- maybe half an hour. But is there something I can do for you?"

"This won't take long," the taller man promised, wiping his sneakers self-consciously on the welcome mat before following Joanne into the living room. He sat on the nearest couch and she sat in a plush armchair across from him, clasping her hands together. "I need your help with something. It's about Mark."

"Does it have anything to do with you stalking him into the Life the other day?" she asked, amusement touching her voice. He stared at her for a moment and she gave him a mischievous smile that reminded the professor far too much of Maureen. "Don't worry, he didn't see you. I didn't mention it. Most stalkers don't want to be seen, right?"

"Thanks," he sighed in relief. "Yes, actually, it does… Joanne, could I ask you, what do you think of Mark? Do you ever get the feeling he might, ah… Play for the other team?" Her eyes flickered with recognition, and as he watched she suddenly leant forward with a devious grin.

"So, I'm not the only one who thinks so?" she stage-whispered. Collins smiled widely back at her and shook his head. "What's the plan?"

"Well, I've been observing him the past few days, and I have this theory…"

MRMRMRMRMRMRMR

"December 24th, 10 am, Eastern Standard Time," Mark narrated, pointing his camera into the throngs of people pressing in around the bohemians. Thankfully, Collins had chosen the perfect day for their excursion; not only were all the street vendors out selling their wares in hopes of earning enough for a good meal for the holidays, but the sun was actually visible overhead, watery though it was.

It had been easy enough to convince Mark to accompany them, as he was always looking for opportunities to film the camera-shy people on the street; effortless to convince Maureen and Mimi, because the two of them were notorious for their shopping obsession. Roger was another story. Without his weakness for Mimi's doe eyes, they'd had to literally drag him out of the loft kicking and screaming. "SHOPPING?" he'd hollered as Collins took one of his legs and Mark the other. "Roger Davis does not go SHOPPING for FUN!"

But in the end they'd gotten him onto the street, and when he'd felt the infinitesimal warmth of the sun on his pale skin he'd relaxed his loud protests to a low grumble. As they perused Avenue B, looking curiously at all of the different stalls- there a young woman selling questionable mugs, there an ancient-looking man sitting behind a box with a few possibly stolen pieces of jewelry scattered on top of it- Collins and his new accomplice took note of their companions.

Maureen, attached to her pookie as always, was very easily excited; she kept pulling Joanne ahead of the group, shouting about some sparkly or otherwise interesting object. Mimi was laughing at her antics as she walked beside the couple, while Joanne gave the two other women exasperated glances every few seconds. Collins took the back of the group, watching with growing certainty in his hypotheses the two men in front of him.

Mark was a big teddy bear, really; all of the bohemians knew that. He loved physical contact, although he often seemed to be emotionally detached. If you ever wanted a hug or a comforting warmth beside you while you fell asleep, Mark was your guy. So it wasn't all that suspicious that the ginger-blonde filmmaker was walking so close to his roommate that their arms were touching. It struck Collins as something he should record, however; that and the pink flush that stayed on his cheeks, and the happiness radiating from him as Roger and he joked around.

Collins fought off a grin. They were just TOO CUTE.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMR

It wasn't all that long before he and Joanne had lead them to their destination; a well-known clothing vendor who annually sold the latest trends during the holiday season outrageously cheap to the homeless in Alphabet City who could afford it. The vendor was a middle-aged dark-skinned woman who looked like a real survivor, the crinkling around her eyes when she smiled a testament to her age and exhaustion. She greeted them profanely, though not unkindly.

"You bitches lookin' for some pretty clothes, you sure know where to come!" she said boomingly. Gesturing to the several open boxes around her stall, which unlike others they had seen actually had a stool behind it, she continued. "Go ahead and if you see somethin' ya like, throw me a fuckin' dolla'."

Mimi dived into the nearest box, Maureen hot on her heels, with a squeal of delight and pulled out a pair of knee-high leather heeled boots. Collins rolled his eyes, pausing to exchange an amused look with Joanne, and then turned his attention to his roommates.

Roger leaned coolly against the wall of the anonymous brick building nearest to them, trying to look annoyed and emotionless at the same time. Annoyance was winning out. His dirty-blond hair was curling into his eyes in, dare Collins think it, the most adorable way. Mark probably thought so, too; he kept casting obvious glances in the guitarist's direction as he absently filmed the giggling girls throwing scarves over each other's necks. Finally, he lowered the camera.

"Rog, will you hold this?" he called, giving Roger the most heartwarming blue-eyed puppy eyes anyone has ever seen. The musician scowled playfully and moved forward, then tripped over one of the more forlorn boxes at his feet. He caught himself with one hand before smashing his face into the asphalt, swearing. The filmmaker's eyes were glued to his ass.

Success. That was a definite sign that Collins and Jo were on the right track. He turned to find her staring straight at him, her dark eyes lit up with the same triumph he felt. She nodded back to them, and Collins remembered he was supposed to be observing still.

His gaze returned to find Mark pulling off sweater, apparently oblivious to the December chill, and exposing his pale torso and alert pink nipples to the world before pulling a ripped, tight-fitting black t-shirt over his head. It flattered the contours of his body, Collins had to admit; he wasn't as much of a fashionista as his Angel, but he would readily say that the shirt was a step up from Mark's closet full of drab sweaters. Now if only he put on a pair of jeans that fit the lower half of him as well as the top, the look would be complete.

The slack-jawed look on Roger's stubbly face as Mark pulled off his pants in favor of a pair of black skinny jeans was priceless. But then again, it also gave Collins something to think about. Wasn't it Mark's sexuality he was supposed to be questioning?

This experiment was going better than he'd ever dreamed… Now it was time for round two.


	5. Perform an Experiment (Pt 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: RENT not mine. If it was, this wouldn't be called fanfiction.

This truly was a puzzle. That much filtered through Collins alcohol-hazed mind as Maureen tipped the bottle of Stoli and refilled the bohemians' shot glasses one by one. Even Joanne had relaxed enough to have a drink or two when they came crashing back into the loft, swearing and laughing too raucously. They were already buzzed after their brief stint at the Life Café, which only ended after they were kicked out- predictably, for pushing tables together and dancing them while starting up a rowdy musical number with the other diners.

And now they were back at the loft, sitting on the dusty floor in a circle around their entire stash of alcoholic beverages, each with a questionably clean shot glass in hand filled with amber liquid. Yeah, maybe they were considered too old for party games like "I've Never", but it was Christmas Eve and they were bohemians, dammit! If there was any night they should live a little, it was this one. Jesus would approve.

It was too bad that Collins wasn't a Christian and Mark was Jewish. Oh well. Did they ever honestly need a reason to get drunk?

"I," Roger started, grinning far too widely to be entirely sober. "Have never eaten a chick out." Maureen and Mimi both tipped back their glasses with no hesitation, laughing with each other as they'd been doing for most of the day, and Joanne did as well, albeit in a quieter fashion. The anarchist thought he saw a bit of a flush on her dark cheeks, but he wasn't focused enough to really care if he'd imagined it. When he returned his attention to Roger, the rocker was staring openly at his ex-girlfriend.

"When- nevermind," he mumbled, obviously quite perturbed by this new information. Mimi stuck out her tongue childishly, refilling her glass.

"Don't ask if you don't want to know, baby." After a pause and a thoughtful look, the curly-haired Latina gave the group around her a positively evil smirk. "I've never given a rimjob."

And that's where things got REALLY shocking.

No one could be surprised when Maureen drank to that; frankly, Collins thought that she'd probably done pretty much everything they could possibly mention in this game. Maureen was always the drunkest one at the end of a game like this.

And Collins, well, he was gay and he wasn't going to be condemned for this anyways. Being bohemian meant sexual freedom, and he didn't give a flying fuck what other people thought of it anyways. Mimi gave him a raised eyebrow, but then… then they were all stuck in a fixed expression of dumb shock.

Mark looked around sheepishly, ducked his mussed blonde head, and quickly downed his glass.

All hell broke loose.

"MARKYYYY!" Maureen wailed, throwing herself out of her seat in Joanne's lap on top of her former lover. Normally her fiancée would have something to say about this, but Jo was as speechless as the rest of them at Mark's unwilling admission. As they watched, his cheeks flamed to the brightest shade of fire engine red any of them had ever seen. "Whenwas thiiiis? How come I don't know about it?"

Though her words were starting to slur together, they all knew what she was saying, because the same thing was on all of their minds. The filmmaker, always the introvert, was staring at the floor in a poor attempt at nonchalance. "It was, uh…" He coughed, shaking his head as if to clear it, and his sky-blue eyes gained a new determination as he twisted his fingers together in his lap and changed the subject.

"I've never…"

MRMRMRMRMRMRMR

At some point, one of them pulled out a deck of cards. It was probably Mimi; in her time at the CatScratch, she'd been slipped some very interesting tips. A deck of cards wouldn't even be unusual for her to find in her panties after a night of "dancing".

Joanne and Maureen had taken their own private party to the corner, and even though it was only partially illuminated by the candles the Latina had lit, Collins was sure he could see part of Maureen's white ass. Quickly, he looked back to his cards in front of him; as free as he liked sexuality to be, his friends deserved some privacy while they were getting it on. And judging by the soft moaning sounds coming from the corner, they definitely were.

It wasn't long until the game was over- none of them were huge poker fans anyways- but the fact that they'd been playing strip poker wasn't overlooked. Actually, it became very VERY apparent as Mo and Jo rejoined them, looking thoroughly ravished, for their next activity.

It wasn't surprising that they'd emptied a bottle of Stoli. Joanne, in an uncharacteristic display of mischief, was the one to suggest they play Spin the Bottle. All of them were mostly naked at this point; Mimi, surprisingly, had the most clothes on of any of them- she'd turned out to have a suspiciously talented poker face. But Roger had definitely fared the worst. Between the three of them, Mimi, Mark and Collins had stripped the poor musician down to a pair of black socks and his old blue boxers that Collins remembered back from the April days and before.

Collins was proud to still have his pants on, something none of the rest of them had accomplished. Mark's new pair of skinny jeans, purchased earlier from the vendor at the girl's encouragement- as well as Roger's, his mind whispered to him smugly- were tossed into the corner his ex had occupied with her girlfriend not so long ago. His new form-fitting t-shirt was still on, but rumpled after their repeated attempts to remove it. Mimi's blue spandex was long gone, and in his drunken state, Collins wasn't even sure if that was because of the poker game.

Mimi took the first spin. The glass bottle distorted the flickering candlelight in the most interesting ways as it spun, mesmerizing the professor until it came to a stop with the long neck pointing at… Roger. The Feline of Avenue B, normally so relaxed in situations like this, was stiff and awkward as she leaned in and gave her ex-boyfriend a quick peck on the lips. He was grimacing as she pulled away, and he wiped his mouth subtly on the back of his sleeve as he reached over to take his own spin.

It landed on Collins; the anarchist barked out a laugh as Roger's face flamed almost as bright as Mark's had earlier for a reason Collins barely remembered now. "Bring it, you pussy," he taunted, and the guitarist darted in to mash their lips together for the barest moment before pulling away.

"Disgusting," he drawled, making a face. Mark snorted in laughter. "Your turn, Tom."

MRMRMRMRMRMRMR

The game continued for what seemed like forever, and Collins was disappointed to find that against all odds, the two other boho boys had not yet been forced to kiss. It wasn't until their spinning was slowing down, wordlessly approaching the end of their night out, that anything particularly interesting happened concerning Mark Cohen and Roger Davis.

What people tended to forget about Mark was that, although he was a shy person when sober, he was a terribly easygoing drunk. He got comfortable with his situation no matter what it was; when Maureen slipped her tongue devilishly past his lips, he just pulled away laughing loudly. When Mimi plopped her down in his lap and attempted to give him a lap dance (which was completely Joanne's idea, though she wouldn't admit it) he just pulled her off of him and poked her in the forehead with a content smile. He was not, however, usually a very boisterous drunk. That was always Maureen; SHE was the wild one. Not Marky boy.

Except tonight he was, and in the most… interesting way.

It was the situation that the tall black man had been waiting in painful anticipation for all night; the pinnacle of his research. Time seemed to slow down as the bottle left Mark's hand and spun, spun, spun around the circle, slowing to a stop pointing dead center at none other than his green-eyed roommate.

The change in his face was almost comical; from a relaxed grin to a rather owlish look of surprise as he slowly trailed his eyes upwards from the offending Stoli bottle to Roger's knees, which were right beside him, and up from there. Collins couldn't help but notice the way that Mark's eyes lingered on Roger's thighs, or perhaps the bulge in between them, and then on the muscles of his chest until they reached his face.

Tentatively- and probably very conscious that everyone in the room seemed to be holding their breath as they watched in amusement and interest- the young filmmaker scooted closer to Roger until there was almost no space between their bare legs. The anticipation was palpable. His complexion was light pink in embarrassment as he bit his lip lightly, bracing himself, and finally lunged to capture the guitarist's own chapped lips.

Roger, for lack of a better word, pounced.

Now, Collins knew from Mimi's detailed descriptions in past drunken nights like this one, that Roger was a sex fiend. And none more so than when he was drunk as a bitch, which he happened to be at that moment. It really showed.

In a short three seconds, Mark had been flung onto the ground roughly and his body covered with Roger's as the taller man did everything short of straddle him and rip his clothes off. Roger's green eyes had darkened to a thin emerald band around huge dilated black pupils, and Mark's had done the same; Collins was probably the only one to notice this sign of physical attraction. The rest of them were probably focused on the clear outline of an erection in Mark's plaid boxers.

Roger pressed their lips together fervently, nibbling at the younger man's lips seductively as he pinned him to the floor beneath him and allowed his hands to roam under the introverted filmmaker's shirt. The motion, coupled with the feeling of Roger's tongue at his slightly parted lips before it forced itself inside uninvited, though certainly not unwanted, made the ginger-blonde boy groan.

And almost as suddenly as it had started, it was over. Roger pulled himself up and off of his roommate, looking like the cat who's had the cream in the smugness radiating off of his being and the huge smirk covering his face. Mark, slightly disoriented from the sudden assault, sat up a bit slower and leaned against the other man for support for a second before regaining his bearings.

Blushing and muttering feverishly, Mark fixed his crooked glasses and gestured to the bottle. "Your turn," he mumbled to Roger. The musician gave him a lewd grin before complying. The night, or early morning, progressed smoothly once more and no one questioned the scene they'd just witnessed.

Collins wondered if he was the only one noticing these figurative neon signs flashing from the two men in front of him. Though he tried to stop thinking about it, for the rest of the night the sight of Roger's body on top of the filmmaker's was burned into his brain.


	6. Analyze the Data

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Oh how I wish I owned RENT and MarkRoger… I would hug them and love them and take them for walks and feed them eeeeevery day!

When their party had dwindled to the three loftmates and the boys had gone to their rooms to sleep off the alcohol, Collins stayed up and stared hard at the several pages of careful, detailed notes he'd collected in his little black book that week. Mimi had dragged Maureen and Joanne down to her apartment, shouting something about "Girl sleepover, no boys allowed!" and giggling drunkenly as she stumbled down the stairs. Mark and Roger were, presumably, sleeping safe in their beds.

The anarchist was very aware that he didn't have long left here at the loft; in a day or two, he'd be forced to hop on a bus or in a taxi and make his way back to Maine. The job he'd procured there really was a steal, and he wasn't keen on losing it. So his little project would have to be finished soon, as soon as possible. He was too deep into it to just leave before figuring out if he was right.

The experiment had been a wonderful source of evidence for both of Collins' theories. Mark had been practically flamboyant all night long. There was no doubt left in the professor's mind that his young friend was gay. Now that he really thought about nit, was it even surprising? Mark was always shy and quiet around girls, never going out of his way to score dates or sex like Benny and Roger always had. Even with Maureen, he was never really very interested in sex. It was her who wanted it, and the filmmaker had just bemusedly let her take what she wanted in any way she wanted. He'd never actually told them all in so many words that he was hetero, anyways; he'd just let all of the other bohemians assume what they liked.

Then there was the issue with Roger. Collins couldn't say he would be overly shocked if he found that that one was true as well; even when the musician was in withdrawal, alternately sobbing, retching, yelling and hitting whatever was closest to him, Mark had stayed and remained patient with him. He was the only one who wasn't enraged when dark violet bruising bloomed in blotches across his cheekbone and in a finger-pattern that matched his roommates' hands perfectly when wrapped around his bare arms.

And if Mark was upset, for any reason, the first one he turned to was Roger. Everyone knew that Roger probably wasn't the best one to consult when you were having a problem. He was too awkward when it came to consoling someone hurting; he went about it the wrong way. Poking and prodding at it only made it sorer, teasing wasn't about to score him any points, and an arm around the shoulders wasn't the solution to every problem. Yet he did all of those things. He probably laughed when Mark told him that Maureen had left him for a woman- of course it was funny, but it was a sensitive issue Mark hadn't brought it up to JOKE about it- but still, knowing this would happen, the scrawny filmmaker went to Roger.

He wondered how he hadn't seen it before, the way Mark looked at the green-eyed rocker. Before, Collins had always taken it to be motherly concern. After all, the introvert was the center of their bohemian family, the one who held them together through all of their fights and makeups and breakups. But the gaze he reserved just for Roger was somehow warmer than the ones for Angel in the past, for Collins himself, for Maureen and Joanne and Mimi. It was almost the same longing that Mimi sometimes stared at him with now… no, exactly the same.

It was decided. Mark was in love with his roommate. Fact. Yet even as Collins solidified this in his mind, he was moving onto the next tangle of thoughts.

The boho boys' behavior that night had been much more suspicious than some unrequited love on Mark's part. What about the way Roger had practically DROOLED when his favorite blondie pulled on those skinny jeans? He obviously didn't think anyone had noticed when his hand "accidentally" brushed the pale, skinny man's ass and made Mark jump two feet in the air with a squeal as they walked into the Life. But Collins had. And taken note, as he had with everything this past week.

What was going on here? There had never been a question of Roger's sexuality before. He was a self-proclaimed Rock God. He'd come to the city at seventeen for, quote, "booze, music and pussy". There was a string of stunning girls on his record, and that was BEFORE the groupies came into the picture. Then April, with her vibrant eyes rimmed with dark eyeliner and silky red hair falling around her face in the most alluring manner; Mimi, whose big brown eyes and entire body screamed "SEX!" in her stripper clothes and seductive smiles.

Roger couldn't possibly be attracted to men. He'd always raved about the sex he'd gotten in his glory days as an indie rocker in the clubs of New York City. It was unfathomable to think that the entire time he'd been lying; impossible, actually. Roger was a horrible liar, especially to Collins, who he always got nervous lying to. He knew the anarchist would see through him every time. And because of that, Collins knew that Roger wasn't averse to a few breasts and vaginas.

There's such a thing as bisexual. Especially in NYC, this wasn't uncommon. The anarchist would never have pegged the ex-junkie as bi, not when he loved his name screamed at him from scantily clad women so much, but he'd come to believe anything was possible in this godforsaken city. People didn't always conform to expectations. Roger, for one, never had. He'd always been a rebel, always defied everyone's assumptions about him. Perhaps he'd done that with his sexuality as well.

And the kiss… No, the complete makeout session that Roger and Mark had had on the floor right in front of everyone. Yeah, that. It had to be taken into consideration that Roger had initiated that. Mark was the one he'd been watching, and he lust in his eyes was evident not only in him but in Roger as well. Both of the boys had seemed completely comfortable finding the other's tongue in their mouth. Judging from the situation going on below the waist for both of them, they were enjoying it immensely… and there hadn't even been an awkward glance between them afterwards. Didn't that say something?

They couldn't have given him a clearer sign. Collins felt his eyes widening as the realization hit him, and he feverishly scrambled for a pen to jot down his thoughts on another fresh page. HAW HAD HE MISSED THIS BEFORE?

RogerandMark. MarkandRoger. It was sort of a joke among the other bohemians to refer to the roommates like this, combining their names to symbolizing the inseparable bond the two had always seemed to share. What if that bond was more?

Collins wasted no time shoving his notebook back into his duffel bag and tossing his pen off to wherever it chose to land. He tried to slow down his excited heartbeat as he shuffled down the hallway, trying not to make too much noise in approaching the filmmaker's door. He didn't want to wake the songwriter as well. This was a conversation he wanted to have with Mark. A question he wanted to ask, rather.

"Mark?" he whispered, reaching out to rap his knuckles on the door. It gave and pushed inwards with a creak; Mark had left it open? That was odd… Collins peered inside curiously. From what he could see in the darkness, the bed was flat and empty.

That was when he heard the sounds issuing from Roger's bedroom.


	7. Make a Conclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I think the concept of rent is that you don't own something, so… it's only fitting that I don't own RENT. :(

It was a squeaking sound, like bedsprings, that caught Collins attention. That and the soft, familiar male voices that issued from beneath the door. He felt an incredulous grin creep onto his face. "No way," he murmured to himself, but yes, yes there actually was a great chance that he'd already guessed what was going on in the next room. Tiptoeing across the small stretch of cold floor, the anarchist leaned gently against the door and listened.

"Roger," came Mark's voice, breathy and on the verge of a moan. Collins bit the inside of his cheek to keep from giggling like one of Roger's old groupies. "Now? Collins is in the other room…"

"He hasn't noticed that you haven't been in your own room all week," Roger replied slyly. His companion's breath hitched as he gave a quiet laugh, and Collins didn't even pause to imagine what he was doing to the other man. As curious as he was… Did he want to know the details of his two friends' secret sex life?

Hardly a moment passed before images of Roger's fingers skillfully manipulating Mark's nipples as the smaller man writhed beneath him flooded his mind in a resounding YES.

"He's oblivious," Roger continued in that teasing tone of voice. The sexual energy in the room was practically leaking out from under the door as Mark gave a small whimper. The sound of the bedsprings squeaking ever so slightly was giving Collins the most graphic mental pictures. Most of them involved Roger's hands straying over Mark's bare chest and downwards towards the line of light blonde hair that lead to the filmmaker's crotch. "He won't notice… we can be quiet."

"Really?" Though he was still breathing too hard to be innocent, Mark's voice managed to have a sarcastic edge. "Because we've always been so QUIET before. Do you remember when we woke Mimi up that night-"

"That was all you, Marky boy," Roger laughed. He shifted and the bed squeaked some more. That noise was going to be imprinted on Collins mind forever as the sound of Mark and Roger getting it on. Great. "I wasn't the one screaming my name, was I?"

"I wasn't screaming," the filmmaker huffed in embarrassment. "I mean, I guess I was a little loud-"

"You know you were screaming my name," Roger said huskily, and the anarchist could imagine the shiver going down Mark's spine at his tone. It was so frustrating not being able to see anything; it left everything up to Collins overactive imagination, and that was NOT a good thing. He wondered if he could possibly open the door a crack without them catching on… "It's not your fault. I just know EXACTLY where to touch you…"

Eyes widening and mouth forming an "o" of surprise, Collins struggled not to laugh out loud at what he'd been hearing. He could hardly believe he'd never picked up on any of this in the past… Of course, the last time he'd been here, Roger had still been attached to his dancer, so he couldn't be faulted for not seeing the early signs. Still, he wished he had… this was a priceless moment.

"Oh, fuck… Roger!" Mark groaned, sucking in a sharp breath. Who knew what mischief Roger had gotten into now; whatever it was, it was pleasurable for the vocal recipient. "Please," he whimpered.

"Quiet," the rocker growled seductively. The sound of skin sliding on skin was enough to make Collins dark skin flush even darker. Were they really risking this when they knew Collins was in the house? That was a tad daring for Mark, but then again, if anyone could talk him into it, it was Roger. "Wouldn't want to wake Collins, would we?"

"God, no!" Mark sighed in horror. "That would be so- ROGER!" he squeaked louder. "We really shouldn't-!"

"Shhhhhh, you might wake Collins!" Roger taunted. Whatever the hell he was doing to Mark was causing him to spiral out of control rather quickly. Unable to resist any longer, Collins darted back into the filmmaker's room and snatched his camera up off of his otherwise bare dresser. He thought that he remembered how to use it… Mark had shown him once when he asked, happy to explain to someone who was genuinely interested in how his treasured camera worked.

Well, now was the time to test it out. He did his best to turn the contraption on, and when he'd gotten it right- or so he hoped- the anarchist pointed it at himself with an impish grin.

"You'll NEVER guess what's going on behind this door," he gushed in a whisper, pointing behind him briefly with one hand. "Actually, you probably could… I bet Mark has made at least ten sex tapes by now with Roger… Anyways." He cleared his throat, preparing himself for this victory speech to the camera. It was going to be the most hilarious thing when Mark watched this reel and discovered that Collins had found him out. He hoped, to the very depths of his heart, that he was still there when it happened. Mark's blushing was always spectacular, and it was bound to be even more so in this compromising position.

"Unbeknownst to my two friends in there, I've been doing my own little project the past week that I've been here. I got bored, so… I decided that it was about time I figured out why Mark was single still. I mean, come on. It's been almost two years since Maureen and from what I know he hasn't even had sex ONCE since!" He paused for emphasis and then continued, still straining to hear what was going on in the next room. Collins wanted to time this perfectly. "I st- INVESTIGATED for a few days and finally, two theories occurred to me. One," he ticked off on his fingers. "Was that Mark was a flamer. And two, he was in love with Roger."

"With the help of Joanne, we performed an experiment on Christmas Eve and all of the evidence pointed to my being absolutely RIGHT. Finally, I've come to this simple conclusion; Roger and Mark are together. And they've loved each other for a loooong time. Of course, when I come to talk to Mark about it- assuming he was still drunk enough to admit anything- his bedroom is EMPTY."

The triumphant smile on the anarchist's face and the increasingly loud bed-squeaking in the background would be enough for someone to piece together what was going on behind Roger's bedroom door. But Collins wanted to make sure he documented a special moment like this to the very best of his ability. Taking a chance, he set the camera on the floor, still running, and ever-so-carefully twisted the knob of Roger's door and pushed it inwards. It didn't even creak; success! Mark's incessant moaning became that much louder to his ears, unobstructed by the door, and he could see them in the candlelight. Of course Roger would keep a candle lit. He probably liked to see Mark's face twist in pleasure.

Picking the camera up gingerly, like the baby it was to Mark, he pointed it at his face once more to show the future audience his wicked grin before the real show started. "Needless to say, I went snooping… and this is what I found." The lens was redirected to the scene in Roger's room, which was better than Collins had even imagined. With his wrists bound together to the bedposts above his head, blonde head thrown back as he desperately twisted against them and groaned out Roger's name again and again, Mark lay in the middle of the bed stark naked and glasses-less. His legs were wrapped around roger's waist as the songwriter pounded him into the mattress, grunting.

"Fuck, Mark," he muttered as he thrust down particularly hard. Mark yelped, his begging reaching a crescendo. Just as they were about to reach their climax, Collins began his narration.

"December 25th, whatever the hell time it is in the morning Eastern Standard Time: Thomas B. Collins stumbles upon undeniable proof that he is a genius, because he was RIGHT. Enjoy the show, Marky," he laughed cheekily, and switched the camera off and shut the door behind him before replacing Mark's baby where he'd found it. As he padded down the hallway to his place on the couch, he yawned, and a thought struck him.

That was one question answered. But now… Now that that enigma was solved, he didn't have much of anything to do. And he was here a few more days…

Tom Collins, part time professor and full time vagabond anarchist, was bored.

And the cycle began to repeat itself.


End file.
